torn we may be
by adaughterofzion
Summary: He is the only thing in the world that makes sense and yet he perplexes her more than anything and anyone.


Title: torn we may be

Rating: G

Summary: He is the only thing in the world that makes sense and yet he perplexes her more than anything and anyone.

Prompt from #scullyys on Tumblr: _It's Liz's birthday. Red does something special._

A/N: I can't believe how long this took me. I just wanted to do a mini-celebration after getting a few followers. I just wanted to write a short, somewhat fluffy fic for Lizzington. I honestly don't what this is. Character study of sorts? It's basically Lizzington moments written in a kind of abstract form. I've enjoyed writing it, even if I did get stuck at some points. Please let me know what you think.

_"However confused the scene of our life appears, however torn we may be who now do face that scene, it can be faced, and we can go on to be whole." _- Muriel Rukeyser

**I.**

_"Liz, it's me. I don't know where you are, but it's your birthday tomorrow and you're not home. I'm not angry, I just…Call me please, when you can. I love you."_

Liz finishes listening to Tom's voicemail, briefly considers messaging him before she gingerly places her cell on the bedside table. She stares at the ornamental ceiling as she thinks of her husband, thinks of how every memory of him and _them_ is now tainted by doubt and mistrust. She thinks of the yawning chasm that now exists between them, how finding a simple wooden box have lead to a chain reaction of events that irrevocably changed everything.

Liz wonders how they could ever fill the void, ponders on whether she even wants to.

She comes home late since the dreaded day that she'd unearthed the box from beneath the floorboards, torn between wanting to confront him and the fear of what his answers could bring.

On some nights, she doesn't come home at all.

It's when the day stretches for far too long, when all that she does for God and country aren't enough to stop her mind from wandering towards the box and all its horrible insinuations that gnaw and rake at the pit of her stomach.

It's when she's simply too exhausted to maintain the facade of the dutiful and loving wife, when all the lies threaten to spill over. It's at the end of the days like these, she finds herself in the least likely of places.

Raymond Reddington's house.

She never heads straight there. First, she'll find a dingy bar where she promises to get herself thoroughly drunk on cheap whiskey.

Red then finds her.

(Red _always_ finds her).

Liz senses him approach, her back to him before he seats himself on a stool beside her. Liz imagines the grimace on his face at being in this dump, but he says nothing. Instead, Liz feels him watch her as she strokes the scar on her wrist, two empty tumblers in front of her.

Her vision somewhat hazy, her mind thankfully blank, but when Red lightly presses his fingers to her scarred wrist, the simple action brings everything into sharp clarity.

Her eyes locks with his own, dark blue and stormy like the ocean on a full moon, the tips of his fingers warm against the sensitive skin of her wrist.

The silence washes over them, his fingers now moving softly over her scar.

Red breaks the quiet, whispers, "Lizzie."

He says nothing but the name only he calls her, the nickname that had initially infuriated her but now gives a modicum of comfort in that she can rely on the constant that Red would always call her that.

Liz shakes her head, breaks their gaze, "I can't."

What exactly she isn't sure, but in her peripheral vision she sees him nod. His fingers leave her wrist; leaving her feeling oddly bereft, but before she can dwell on what _that_ means, Red places some money on the counter and tenderly grasps her elbow, guiding her off the stool.

"We should go."

Liz no longer questions why she follows him, why she doesn't argue with him that this (_her_) is none of his concern. Initially, she'd put up a perfunctory fight, which ended swiftly with Red stating in that matter-of-fact manner he has that she will always be his concern.

So Red has Dembe drive them to his home, guides her inside where Grey fixes her with a calculating stare, but remains silent.

He then leads her down a corridor, stopping when they reach a particular door. He stares into her eyes with an intensity that had at first made her uncomfortable, but she has now come to...accept. Red takes hold of her wrist again, his thumb swiping over the scar with a gentleness that almost makes her want to cry.

"You'll find clothes to sleep in inside."

Liz can't do anything but nod as Red continues his ministrations.

For a moment, there's nothing else but the two of them and the warmth that resonates throughout her body as he continues stroke her scar.

He then drops her hand, his voice low when he speaks, "You are always welcome here, Lizzie." Red takes a step back. "I'm a couple of doors down should you need anything."

Liz gulps, her throat dry, her mind not able to fully process everything that's happening.

That she's here. In his home.

There's so much she wants to say, wants to ask of him. What is it he wants from her? Why does he care so much for her well-being? When did their relationship evolve from begrudging partners to..._this_?

But the words die in her chest and all she can manage is a weak nod, a soft, murmured thanks before she opens the door to the room, collapses on it and finally breathes.

**II.**

When surrounded by her colleagues, neither Red nor Liz speak of their current arrangement. The FBI are suspicious enough as it is without compounding to it the fact that she occasionally stays at the home of number four on the their most wanted list. Liz does nothing but sleep in the room that Red has rather affectionately dubbed as 'hers' (despite her protests), but she knows that if anyone were to discover where she sometimes spends her evenings, they will level against her more judgment than they already do.

So Liz continues to treat him with detached professionalism, maintaining the sort of vague exasperation that governed her early encounters with Red, while he feeds her with breadcrumbs of information – depending on his disposition and generosity – in that bemused, self-aggrandizing way he has towards all things.

At times, Liz will wonder when his cutting sarcasm and blatant mockery of the institution she works for ceased to bother her.

On this particular day, Red has information for them, but he has to meet with a contact in Paris.

Liz doesn't think she'll ever stop being taken aback by how casual Red can be towards his meandering about the globe.

"We'll have my plane, Lizzie." Red says as if that's the divine answer to everything.

Liz raises a brow, "We?"

Red grins, "Why, of course. You'll be coming with."

Liz cocks her head to the side, "Why?"

Red's grin slowly broadens, "You don't want to see Paris?"

When Liz had been younger, she'd loved the weekend trips Sam would take her on, even if it were to a small lake to fish. Like any other adolescent, in spite of her father's abandonment and her mother withering away, it hadn't been enough to diminish the yearning to travel, to see the world. But then she'd dove straight into studying, working part-time at two jobs to make up the shortfall in her tuition that Sam couldn't afford.

Liz had excelled and had eventually moved to New York.

Then she'd met Tom and gotten married and with that, gone was the opportunity to travel. Her life then consisted of being a doting wife seeking to adopt a child.

So when Red dangles the temptation of Paris in front of Liz, she's torn between wanting to say yes immediately and saying no simply to spite him.

She settles for a feigned reluctant 'fine' and hopes Red doesn't notice.

Liz knows she's failed when Red chuckles knowingly, "I knew you'd see things my way."

She narrows her eyes at Red, but he's already walking away, throwing a casual wave over his shoulder, informing her that they'll be leaving in two hours.

**III.**

Tom is thankfully not at the house when she arrives there to pack. She doesn't take much; experience has taught her that Red will have something for her once they reach Paris.

Liz leaves Tom an ambiguous note saying that she'll be away for a couple of days and may not be contactable.

She can't quite find it within herself to write '_I love you'_, she instead tacks on a hasty _'talk to you later.'_

When she locks the door to their house, Dembe is already waiting at the bottom of the stairs. He reaches for her bag, which she relinquishes hesitantly, still unaccustomed to how Dembe does just about everything. She opens the door to the back of the car, sliding inside, painfully careful in leaving a space between herself and Red.

She tries not to think about why.

Red makes no mention of it, his lips curled up slightly in a smile that says he knows something she doesn't, "Are you ready, Lizzie?"

Her brows furrow, somewhat apprehensive, "For what?"

He fixes her with a mocking withering stare, "Come now, Lizzie, there's no need to act coy. It's Paris. An adventure."

Red says this so gleefully, that she can hardly reconcile the 'Concierge of Crime' looking and sounding child-like in his enthusiasm towards their impending travel together.

In spite of herself, Liz stifles a grin, looks up at him as he waits for her response. She blinks for a moment, allows a ghost of smile to grace her lips before turning her head to look outside the window, "I guess it is."

**IV.**

The flight to Paris is about eight hours, in which Red spends very little time discussing details of their meeting with his contact, instead opting to inform her of certain places she had to see.

In particular, a little café that apparently served an apple strudel to die for.

Liz is somewhat at a loss at his exuberance, choosing to sip primly at the wine she'd tentatively accepted. Red immediately refills it, despite her not being half-way through. She raises a suspicious eyebrow at him.

Red chortles shrewdly, "Once we get to the hotel, you'll most likely have trouble sleeping." He then gestures to her glass. "This will help." He pauses. "More would be better, but not too much that you'll be hung over. That simply won't do."

Liz stares at him dubiously as he drinks his scotch. She then downs the wine in four gulps and asks for another.

Red smiles.

**V.**

When they touch down it's late in the evening and Liz is almost trembling from pure excitement. Jet lag has yet to set in, or if it has it's currently being combatted by the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

She's had a bit to drink, but she's able to walk perfectly fine on her own. It doesn't stop Red from gently grasping her elbow and leading her off the plane.

Liz doesn't shake him off.

The drive to the hotel takes approximately twenty minutes and in that time Liz soaks up every bit of nighttime Parisian scenery she can.

It's as beautiful as she thought it would be.

It's when they arrive at the hotel, luscious and beautiful and no doubt discreet, that fatigue settles swiftly within her bones. Liz suddenly finds it a great feat to keep her eyes open. They're in an elevator when Red touches a hand to the small of her back, whispers, "Almost there."

Thankfully the walk from the elevator to their room isn't far. Red tips the bell boy, thanks him in French and promptly closes the door. Despite the haze of exhaustion, Liz can vaguely discern that their room is beautiful and feels somewhat guilty that she can't fully appreciate it. She feels Red take her elbow – distractedly recalls how often he's taken to that particular gesture of late – and allows him to navigate her towards one of the bedrooms.

When she collapses onto what appears to be a bed, Liz likes to think it wasn't with as much artlessness as it felt.

She hears Red laugh softly, not the disdainful, scornful laugh he uses when he mocks Ressler, but sincere and light. Liz feels Red remove her shoes and if she were more sober and less tired, she'd have the grace to be embarrassed.

But she isn't sober and she's more than a little tired.

And it's Red.

He's never done anything that would purposely humiliate her.

She can just make out his shadow over her as he pulls the duvet from beneath her to cover her body. Liz feels Red's hand reach out, but when she isn't met with warmth of his touch, she opens her eyes a fraction wider, just enough to see him retract his hand.

Liz grabs it.

There's a momentary flash of surprise on Red's face, quickly replaced with something Liz can only label as tender.

She gently squeezes, her eyes fluttering shut, her voice soft and blurred with the need to sleep, "Thank you."

Red remains silent for a long moment and just before Liz loses herself to the world of slumber, she feels him press his fingers to her own. When he finally speaks, his words are faint and low and she hopes she can remember it in the morning for all the meaning behind them, "Of anything, Lizzie, you have but to ask."

**VI.**

Liz wakes to a sound she knows she should recognize and when it finally dawns on her that it's her cell phone ringing, she grumbles listlessly to herself, fumbling along the bedside table until she feels the contours of her cell.

She misses the call.

Liz squints as her eyes attempt to focus on her screen. They then widen when she sees who the missed call is from.

Tom.

Her cell then chirps, informing her of new voicemail received.

Her breath hitches, her hand gripping her cell. She wonders whether she should listen to Tom's message or delete it.

She clenches her jaw, inhales deeply and decides.

**VII.**

_"Liz, it's me. I don't know where you are, but it's your birthday tomorrow and you're not home. I'm not angry, I just… Call me please, when you can. I love you."_

It's only after she finishes listening to Tom's voicemail that it dawns on her.

She'd completely forgotten, lost in the smog of jet lag and all the secrets she's had to keep.

She wonders how she missed it.

That she's here. In Paris. On a mission with Raymond Reddington on her birthday.

Without alcohol to dull her senses or work to distract her, Liz is afforded a rare moment of introspection.

Moments she actively tries to avoid.

Because then her mind will wander to the many unanswered questions she has: why she chooses to spend several nights a week at residence of FBI's number four most wanted (however innocuous, they may be); why she's here on her birthday of all days; why she doesn't mind nearly as much as she should.

Liz wants to think that the pragmatic part of her feels they're wasting time, that she could be doing more productive work than gallivanting across the globe to the city dubbed the most romantic in the world. But then there's another part of her; the small, infinitesimal part she will forever deny exists, where she's _relieved_ to get away from it all. The judgmental looks from Cooper and Ressler, the pity from Meera, and most cutting of all: the caution and trepidation from Tom.

The man she'd vowed to spend the rest of her life with, the sweet man who'd promised to love and cherish her, that he would never hurt her and with one horrible secret, dashed any likelihood of ever trusting him (or any other person) again.

But then there's Red (she doesn't quite remember when he stopped being Reddington and became something…_familiar_).

She knows better. She knows that she shouldn't trust him, that she should heed every instinct in her body screaming at her not to believe a word he says. But then he'll look her way and she swears he can see everything she tries to desperately to hide.

When Red looks at her, he actually _sees_ her.

He sees through the barriers she has erected around herself; sees her yearning for affection, stemming from a father who abandoned her and a mother who didn't find her a good enough reason to live. He sees how ashamed she is to want such things.

But he never judges her for it.

His eyes, usually penetrating and deep, will soften at the sight of her.

He looks at her in a way she knows he has no business doing so.

And in the darkest hours of the night, when alcohol surges throughout her body and her defenses are at its weakest, Liz will admit that she's not as unsettled by Red as she should be, she may even thrive in the knowledge that she can sway such a powerful man.

But at this very moment, she can't hide in the shadows of the evening when the morning sun almost slices through the curtains, she can't use the veil of inebriation to deny the truth.

That she's so distrustful of her own husband, she'd subconsciously fled the country the night before her birthday.

Liz waits for the scorch of imminent tears burning her eyes.

It doesn't come.

In its stead is an emptiness she shouldn't expect after three years of relatively blissful marriage.

Her eyes dart to her cell, idle on the bedside table.

She can't bring herself to speak to Tom.

Her musings are interrupted by a light knock on her door. She sits up in bed, "Come in."

Red enters, already dressed in a crisp white oxford shirt, sharply pressed slacks and matching waistcoat. He hovers by the door, wearing a smile that is somehow both tentative and sure, "Good morning, Lizzie. Did you sleep well?"

Liz's fingers play with the edge of her blanket, nodding mutely.

"I've ordered breakfast. Would you like me to bring it here or would you prefer to eat it in the dining room?"

There's nothing ominous about his statement, but Liz finds herself feeling vaguely suspicious.

Red hasn't moved from the door, maintains an odd sense of propriety in spite of how often he's invaded her personal space, physical and otherwise.

After a long beat, Liz finally answers, "I'll just get dressed."

**VIII.**

Breakfast is delicious.

Red appears to have ordered just about everything the hotel had to offer, not that Liz is complaining.

She listens idly while Red informs her of their itinerary for the day. She raises a dubious brow when he mentions a function that he must attend later on that night and since she is his plus one, it's a given that she look the part.

Which meant shopping.

And if Liz is certain of anything regarding Red, she knows that his tastes will never settle for anything less than the best.

She puts up a nominal argument, protesting that there were more important things to be done than finding the perfect shoes and bag to match her dress.

He dabs at his mouth with a napkin and laughs heartily, "Lizzie, you need to have a bit of fun. This is France, after all."

They go shopping.

And in spite of herself, Liz enjoys it.

**IX.**

The day flies by in a whirlwind of couture, accessories and fine dining.

She's resistant, initially, unused to being so extravagantly doted on, but she enjoys the distraction, she likes listening to Red speak fluent French and then immediately switch to English when he addresses her.

Not once does Red mention anything about her birthday.

Liz doesn't know what to make of it, but when he brings her to the café with the apple strudel to die for, all thought flees her mind.

**X.**

When they're both getting ready for the event later on that night, Liz finds herself staring at the dress Red had purchased.

It had been too much.

She'd balked at the price when she laid eyes on it, but Red had unflinchingly paid for the garment and then proceeded to ask about matching jewellery.

When she slips into the gown, it's soft and cool against her skin. Liz looks at her reflection.

She feels beautiful.

It isn't that she perceives herself as ugly, but she'd always thought herself somewhat pretty in an ordinary sort of way.

Not beautiful. At least not since her wedding day.

But Tom isn't something she wants to think about at this point in time, so she proceeds to meticulously apply her makeup.

She isn't often given the opportunity to dress up, but as Liz finishes getting ready, she feels unabashedly feminine when she takes one last glimpse at herself in the mirror before venturing out into the lounge room. She finds Red sipping away at a finger of scotch, already dressed in a tuxedo tailored to perfection. His eyes widen a fraction, but the awe in his gaze is naked and lingering.

He stands slowly, drink forgotten, "You look wonderful, Lizzie."

She tries to maintain her composure, but the blatant (admiration? reverence?) sentiment in his stare chip away at her resolve. Against her better judgement, Liz finds herself blushing, murmuring softly, "Thank you."

She glances at Red from beneath hooded lids, watches as he leisurely peruses the length of her body. A sudden gust of warmth pools in her belly, molten and burning, matching the fire in his stormy gaze.

He takes a step forward. Then another.

Until there's less than a foot between them.

Liz finds herself feeling light-headed, dizzy at Red's proximity, vaguely annoyed with herself for not fighting him on his encroaching into her personal space when she really should know better.

In spite of herself, Liz gingerly raises a hand to rub his lapel.

His eyes flutter shut for a moment, before he loosely clasps her wrist, his thumb whispering over her scar.

Liz gasps at the contact.

Eyes never leaving hers, he brings her wrist to his lips, brushing them against her scar.

Liz can't breathe.

Every nerve ending is tingling with sensation, pinpricks of pure heat just waiting to burst and suddenly there was nothing more important in the world than kissing Raymond Reddington.

Her fingers grip his lapel. Red gently tugs on her arm.

Liz tilts her head just so, watching as Red's lips slowly descend on hers.

But right before their lips touch, so close that Liz can detect the muskiness of his cologne, can taste the sweetness of the scotch he'd been recently drinking, the hotel phone rings with a sharp trill.

The moment shatters. Lost.

Red releases her wrist (and a sigh), answering the phone in a clipped tone.

He nods and then tersely thanks the caller.

Liz attempts to project a veneer of collectedness, to pretend that seconds ago she wasn't a breath away from kissing a self-proclaimed career criminal.

Red fixes her with a stare she can't quite decipher, "The car is waiting for us downstairs."

Liz nods, takes Red's proffered arm and tries to forget (to no avail) just how utterly amazing Raymond Reddington smells.

**XI.**

Once they're surrounded by people, it's as if nothing had happened (or almost happened) back in the hotel. Liz is unsure if it's because Red is such a consummate liar or if she imagined the entire scenario.

But then she'll feel his fingers brush the small of her back and she'll glance up at him to see him looking back at her the way he had back at the hotel.

Her doubts are simultaneously assuaged and exacerbated.

Liz can't help but wonder what makes her so special.

What prompts him to lavish her with expensive clothing and jewellery, what causes him to look at her as if she were the most precious thing in the world.

And he still hasn't mentioned her birthday.

It's not that Liz finds it that much of an issue, but considering all that Red knows about her, she thinks he would – at the very least – be aware of this.

And then she'll start ruminating on everything he knows, everything he's keeping from her, everything she wants to uncover.

Her past.

_Him_.

There's so little that she can control and she just wishes he would tell her something (_anything_) to make the agony of all the mystery and confusion abate, if only for a while.

Liz feels a slight tightening to her chest, her fingers grip the napkin on her lap as she tries to breathe.

She feels a hand at her elbow.

"Lizzie."

Red's eyes swim with concern, but it only serves to intensify the physical manifestation of her helplessness.

Red then grasps her wrist, his fingers on her pulse, voice low and stern, "Breathe, Lizzie. Slow. Deep."

She listens to him repeat his instructions.

_Breathe. _

_Slow. _

_Deep._

Liz finds herself calming, the coiled tension in her body eases, her head now feeling light.

Red stares at her in that way she knows he shouldn't.

Familiar.

(But not unwanted).

She unconsciously darts her tongue out to lick her lips, watches as Red's eyes follow the motion.

Liz waits a beat, "I want to go now."

Red's gaze flickers to the side before he obliges.

They leave with his hand on her back.

**XII.**

Liz asks Red to have the driver stop before they reach the hotel. He frowns quizzically, but relays the instruction.

She exits the car, careful not to tread on her gown. She heads for the nearest bridge, looks over at the cool water and closes her eyes.

There's a part of her that still can't quite believe that Red has brought her to Paris and as she opens her eyes to stare at the river, she feels the darkness of the water below reflect the constant state of secrecy and shadows her life has become.

She has so many questions.

She _knows_ Red has answers.

The one she ends up asking isn't one she expects, "Do you know what day it is?"

Liz doesn't know why she's fussing over this, but if she could have an answer to _something_, it would provide even an illusory form of relief.

His voice is light and airy and his response is not at all what she was seeking, "I believe it's Tuesday."

Liz clenches her jaw, glad that it's evening so Red doesn't see the crimson flush of shame tainting her cheeks.

"You know, Lizzie, you turn a rather comely shade of red when you blush."

Her head then turns to him and she's struck with the urge to hit him. Or throw him into the river.

The playful smirk on his face speaks for itself.

Red knows much, if not everything, about her. So, in hindsight, she really shouldn't have been that surprised.

Her hands clench into fists at her side, she finally swivels to face him, voice tinged with barely-veiled anger (and maybe a little hurt), "Why did you bring me here? To woo me?"

Gone is the teasing grin, his face now serious, if somewhat unsure. His mouth opens and then shuts, an uncharacteristic gesture for someone so certain of everything.

Red glances at the river and then back to her, "I brought you here to make an impression." He pauses. "Did you not want to see Paris for your birthday?"

Liz laughs mirthlessly, "You and I both know you never ask a question you don't know the answer to."

"Maybe I just want to hear the answer then."

She wants to lie, tell him she's had a dreadful time.

But she can't. Not to him.

Not _now_.

She struggles with this truth as her words come out thin and strained, "It hasn't been horrible."

Red doesn't appear the least bit offended, if anything he looks mildly confused. Then a cool gust of wind causes Liz to shiver; Red doesn't hesitate removing his jacket and placing it smoothly around her shoulders.

His hands drop to his side, sighing softly right before he speaks, "What do you want to ask me, Lizzie?"

Suddenly, she feels tired.

Trying to keep up with Red has always been exhausting; the games, the half-truths. Complicated further by her frequent overnight stays at his home, the inherent distrust that now governs her relationship with her husband, but mostly it's the general uncertainty that has encapsulated her life.

She inhales deeply, Red's lingering scent on his coat a small comfort. She then closes the distance between them with one slow, careful step. She looks up at the man who holds both answers and even more questions about herself, who can hurt her (inadvertently) just as easily as he can soothe her with the truth.

He is the only thing in the world that makes sense and yet he perplexes her more than anything and anyone.

Liz leans forward and she swears she hears his breath stutter, "What am I to you?"

Red doesn't miss a beat, "Important."

"Why?"

He then gives her _that_ look, the one that says that he can't tell her, "Lizzie."

She doesn't yield, "Red."

Sharper now, "Lizzie."

"_Raymond._"

His gasp tells her that she's won, but the pained mien that steals his features leaves her with a hollow sense of victory.

He slowly reaches a hand to tuck an errant curl behind her ear, his smile small, sad and not quite reaching his eyes, "If there's anything you need to know it's this." His fingers then press against her nape, his palm cupping her jaw as he brings his forehead to her own. "There isn't anything I wouldn't do to protect you. I would burn down the world if it meant saving your life."

She'd called him a monster once, maybe he still is.

But in some dark, twisted way, he is _hers_.

And that knowledge is far more comforting than it ought to have been.

Liz clutches his forearms, desperate for purchase lest she be swept adrift by the tide of emotions swirling within her, by the simple yet unshakeable truth that there is no one she can trust more than the man whose arms encase her.

She breathes him in, taking a moment before she asks a lighter question, "Was there really a contact we were meeting tonight?"

Red chuckles, "I'm sure I can conjure up some intelligence to present to your compatriots."

Liz laughs, in spite of herself, "So this was all just part of an elaborate plan to whisk me to Paris?"

Red smiles, brushing his lips against the curve of her cheek, "Happy birthday, Lizzie."

FIN


End file.
